


Family, Blood, and Pumpkin Spice Candles

by Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Violence, Crying Dean Winchester, Crying Sam Winchester, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Good Parent John Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Protective John Winchester, Torture, Tortured Dean Winchester, Tortured Sam Winchester, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-12-28 03:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound/pseuds/Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound
Summary: While John is on a hunt, he leaves Sam and Dean alone in a small, harmless little town. No monsters or supernatural creatures in sight. However, as the boys have learned before, sometimes the worst monsters are regular humans, just like them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В подвале](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25088005) by [Alrami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alrami/pseuds/Alrami)

> My first fanfic! And. . . It's a dark one. Yay. I've actually written before, I've just never shared it with other people. I hope you like it!  
Also, this is, as I've said, a dark fic. If you're not into violence or torture, don't read it. Also, if you're against that and you read the tags, why are you here? ;) Anyway, enjoy the fic!  
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. If I did, Castiel and Dean would be canon, even though our favorite angel isn't mentioned in here at all.

* * *

**One**

There was only so long Sam could scream before his voice gave out. Even when it finally did, he continued to scream at his captor in a hoarse, broken rasp.

The funny thing was, he wasn't even the one that should be screaming. Dean was the one being tortured, after all. And Sam shouted and screamed more in five minutes than Dean had in the five days they had been here combined.

"Don't touch him!" Sam shouted hoarsely. His throat was raw and painful. In the time they had spent in this hellish room, he had only had a few sips of water, begrudgingly given to him by their captor, who stated that he didn't want them to die too quickly.

That had been yesterday. Today, the sadistic man was going on four hours of torture and counting. He currently had Dean chained to the ceiling and was heating a knife with some candles. The really crazy thing, Sam's dehydrated, near-delirious mind thought, was that the candles were scented. The room smelled like blood, fear, misery, piss, and pumpkin spice.

Dean was sagging in his chains, putting dangerous pressure on his shoulders, his eyelids drooping.

"Dean. Dean, don't you give up. Get the fuck away from my brother! Don't fucking touch him," Sam hissed, his voice broken and near-gone.

"Shh, be quiet," their captor, a man named Steve, snarled. "You'll only make it worse for your brother. Now, Dean? We were saying?"

Dean didn't have the energy to fire off one of his sarcastic quips, as he had been doing for the first three days. Now, he only glared tiredly at the man.

Steve smiled and turned to the knife he had been heating. Sam croaked out a desperate _no _before Steve slashed at Dean with the red-hot knife. The oldest Winchester grunted in pain and jerked at his chains, but he didn't scream. Dean hadn't screamed in the five days they had been here. Steve sighed in disappointment.

"When are you going to start screaming? I must say, I'm impressed with your self-control. Usually, my other friends are begging for death by the time they've reached this point."

Sam felt sickened. Dean's body was stripped nearly naked, his muscular torso and legs glistening with sweat and blood. A few of his cuts looked infected and angry, and his green eyes were bloodshot and bruised.

Steve smiled a friendly, slightly unhinged smile at Dean. "Where is your father?"

"I don' know, you f'ckin bastard," Dean hissed. Sam jerked at his chains as Steve huffed out an annoyed breath and hacked into Dean's skin again.

"Not a good answer, Deanie Weenie," he hummed in a sing-song voice.

"Fuck you," Dean gasped. He sounded exhausted.

Steve grinned at him. "I'll ask again."

"Don't need to. I'll give ya the same damn answer. It ain't gonna change, assclown," Dean snarled, the longest sentence he had forced out in a day and a half.

Steve's face turned stormy. Without warning, he raised the knife and plunged the red-hot blade into Dean's right shoulder. Dean made a strangled, pained gasping noise.

"Tell me where John Winchester is," Steve demanded.

"Fuck. . . you," Dean gasped. He looked ready to pass out with the knife still buried in his shoulder. Steve clucked his tongue disapprovingly and twisted the handle just slightly. The noise Dean made had Sam jerking forward, nearly dislocating his wrists.

"Please," he rasped. "Please. We don't know. He goes off on random hunts and-and-and we have no idea where he is. Please! Please, don't hurt him anymore." Dean grunted, either in pain or warning at Sam. Steve, however, turned toward Sam.

"I don't quite believe you, Sammy," he said. Sam's gut twisted sickeningly at the sound of the pet name Dean had affectionately given him coming from the sadistic man's mouth.

"You should," Sam breathed. "We have no idea where he is."

It was partially true. They knew John was somewhere in western Illinois, but they didn't know precisely where. And this whole thing had happened in the time he'd been away. The scary thing was, Sam had no idea how long his father would be gone. John could be gone a week or a month. Or two. They would die, _Dean_ would die, in that time. Sam could only hope that his father's paranoia and eventual need to call them would alert him to the fact that his boys weren't at the motel they were supposed to be safe in. Instead they were in this bastard's basement in someplace west of the town they'd been living in for a few weeks.

And alright, Sam hadn't had his guard up as much as he should have, and neither had Dean. All it had taken was a well-placed shot to the tire of the rental car Dean had managed to acquire, a few tranquilizing darts, and the Winchesters were captured. Sam had no idea what Steve had done with the car, but he had a frightening feeling that the man was good at covering his tracks. He was a smart one.

Right now, he was analyzing Sam with blue eyes that were just slightly shattered and unhinged.

"Hmm. Should I really believe you? I don't think so. Besides, even if you didn't know where your father was, I would still have fun making your deaths slow and painful." He turned to Dean. "And I still haven't heard you scream yet. But that will soon change."

He picked up a knife and grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more Dean whump. There will be more Tortured!Sam in the next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how many people actually read that first chapter. You guys are awesome!

**Two**

Dean couldn't breathe. It was hard to with a knife the size of his forearm sticking out of his shoulder.

Besides, the frantic, frightened face Sam was making wasn't helping.

Steve stepped toward him and Dean flinched involuntarily. The man smiled at that and picked up a cane, putting the knife back on the table. "Should I ask the question again?"

_ No, you fucking prick. I've been telling you the same damn thing for five days straight_.

Dean found he didn't have the energy to answer. His head hung between his upraised, aching shoulders.

Steve grinned. "Wonderful!"

He cracked the cane across Dean's side. The older Winchester's ribs groaned in protest and he swallowed a cry. Can't make any sound. Have to keep him interested in me. Then he'll stay away from Sammy.

Steve started to beat him with the cane, Dean's limp body twisting and swinging like some sort of morbid pinata. 

Sam was shouting something with what little was left of his voice, but Dean could barely hear him. The sound of blood was rushing in his ears. All he wanted to do was die right now. That, or fucking bash this bastard's skull into the wall. He didn't really have the energy for the latter.

He could imagine it, though.

Dean's consciousness slipped in and out. He retreated to a place in his mind where the pain was dulled and he couldn't see the fear in Sam's hazel eyes. Couldn't hear the broken rasp of his voice begging for Steve to stop.

There was blood dripping down Sam's forearms from where he had struggled against the metal chains keeping him in the metal chair. A black eye and the remains of a bloody nose were the only signs that he had put up an initial struggle in the first place. The tranquilizers had been meant for horses, so the Winchesters had been easily subdued within a few minutes.

_This is all my fault. If I had been paying more attention, I would have had my gun out instead of standing there like an idiot and getting stuck with that fucking dart._

_ Now Sam's going to have some serious trauma because of me._

_ Like he didn't already_.

Dean almost chuckled at that. Almost. He was too tired, and he was fairly sure some of his ribs were broken now. It was getting hard to breathe. 

He was suddenly brought back to reality by his chains releasing. He fell to the floor, moaning in pain as his stiff, aching body crashed to the cold cement.

His skin made a sickening sound when it came into contact with the blood-soaked floor.

Steve chuckled. "Have a good sleep, Deanie Weenie. I'll be back soon."

He strode from the room, whistling what sounded like the Charlie Brown theme song. Sam sagged in relief as the door shut behind him.

"Dean. Dean, are you okay?" Sam rasped, his voice hoarse and painful sounding.

"'M fine, Sammy," Dean choked out, wondering if he could muster the energy to shift his aching, beaten body to a more comfortable position.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," Sam said. He sounded near tears. Dean silently prayed to whatever God was up there that he wouldn't cry. Because if Sam broke down now, there was no way Dean could hold it together too.

"'S fine, Sammy. Not. . . y're fault," Dean gasped out, struggling to speak around the sharp pain in his chest. His mouth was full of cotton, he was sure, and there was a strange ringing sound in his ears.

They sat in silence for a little while, Dean struggling not to pass out as wave after wave of agony washed over him. Sam stayed quiet, listening to the ragged brokenness of Dean's breathing and wishing that it had been him chained to the ceiling instead of his older brother.

"I hope Dad can find us," Sam finally said quietly.

Dean looked up at him through swollen, bruised eyes.

"You really think he can?" he slurred, his deep voice broken. His words sounded mushed together, even to his own ears.

"Yeah. I mean, I hope so. I have my phone somewhere down here, so he should be able to trace it. I just. . . I hope he shows up soon," Sam said quietly.

For some reason, Dean felt the urge to start laughing at that. Hell, he would give anything for John Winchester to suddenly, magically appear in this Godforsaken room and save them. But he could be thousands of miles away, and he could go months before noticing something was wrong.

Dean didn't say any of that to Sam, though he suspected his younger brother already knew. "Me too, S'mmy," Dean whispered.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Does your head hurt? I don't think he smacked it too hard."

Dean grunted. "Everythin' hurts, Sammy."

"I think you can go to sleep without fear of a concussion," Sam said. Dean frowned up at him.

"Ya think? 'Cause my head hurts like a bitch."

Sam smiled softly. Dean hated that smile. It either meant Sam was about to do something stupid, or that he was pitying Dean. Both options were deplored by the older Winchester.

"I think you should get some rest before. . . " Sam trailed off.

"Before that crazy sonuvabitch comes back," Dean finished for him.

Sam smiled tiredly at him.

Dean didn't have it in him to try to argue against Sam's reasoning. The kid knew what he was talking about anyway. He was smart.

Stanford smart, Dean realized. If Sam were at Stanford right now, he wouldn't be here, and he wouldn't be hurt and scared.

For the first time, Dean wished Sam had taken that damned scholarship and run with it. Wished that he hadn't taken his younger brother from a life of normalcy and back to this hellhole. And wasn't this hell?

The room was small, probably only thirty feet wide and long. It was low, too. If Sam tried to stand up straight, his head might brush the ceiling. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all made of solid gray cement. The only change in color was the puddle of red that had been inside of Dean only a few hours prior. A rack of shiny tools and blunt objects sat against the far wall. Sam's chair, bolted to the floor next to the only door that led out of the room, was the only other thing besides the whipping post and rack in the other far corner. 

And Dean. Dean was lying in the middle of the floor in a bloodied, bruised heap. The knife was still sticking out of his shoulder. His ribs still creaked and rattled when he breathed. And the room still smelled like a goddamn fucking scented candle.

They were still burning on the table, their flames flickering hypnotically, filling the room with the scent of fall and artificial sweetness. It honestly made Dean want to gag.

Darkness was edging in on his vision, making him wonder if Sam was really right. Maybe he could fall asleep. . . just for a little while, if only so he could get some rest. His eyes were aching. And maybe the pain would go away for a little while. . .

_No. No, I have to stay awake. I have to protect Sammy._

_ I can't leave him alone._

_ I can't._

_ Dad said I have to protect Sammy. I can't leave him. I can't sleep. I have to stay awake. I have to stay awa_-

Sam jerked up suddenly, his too-long (God, when was the last time they'd cut it?) brown hair falling across his face. Dean barely registered the unrestrained fear on his little brother's face before he heard it too.

Pounding footsteps.

Dean's heart began to beat faster, and his injuries throbbed in response to his fear.

Steve was coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any ideas or suggestions for other things Steve could try (as long as it doesn't involve cutting Sammy's hair), please comment! Thanks, guys!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, I am back. Since I wanted to get this out a little sooner, my grammar may not be as good, so tell me if you find anything and I'll try to fix it. As I'm relatively new to Ao3, I was pretty amazed to find out how many people actually read this. It made me happy. :)  
These last few chapters have mostly been Dean whump. Sorry. I really like his character (not that I don't love Sam!) and it was interesting to me how he would perform under pressure such as this. I promise there will be some (but not as much) Sam whump in the next few chapters.  
Alright, I'll stop blabbering. Enjoy the story!

**Three**

The door slammed open. Steve grinned at them both, those shattered blue eyes shining manically. Sam hissed at him as he passed, desperately trying to gain the man's attention so he wouldn't go right to hurting Dean. If he'd been able to spit, he would have. But as it was, his mouth was too dry for him to muster up the saliva.

And consequentially, Steve paid him no heed.

Dean looked up at his torturer tiredly, his green eyes puffy and bruised.

"Let's have some more fun," Steve said, grinning.

"Fuck you," Sam growled at Steve's back. The man turned on him, glaring.

"Shut up. It isn't your turn yet," he snarled.

Sam opened his mouth to say more, but the look Steve gave him warned him to shut up, or he wouldn't like the consequences. Namely, he would hurt Dean.

At least, hurt him even more than he was going to already.

Steve picked Dean up and heaved him across the rough cement floor, eliciting a grunt of pain from the boy. Sam tested the metal chains for the millionth time, struggling to find a weak point like John had taught him. There was nothing. The chains were solid and unyielding.

Steve dragged Dean over to the whipping post and chained him to it, ignoring the curses that started flying from Sam's mouth as he tightened the chains painfully. He grinned once at the youngest Winchester before turning to his rack of tools.

Dean was shaking, whether from fear or pain or the effort of holding himself up, Sam had no idea. Possibly all three. Blood ran from reopened wounds, and the knife that was still sticking out of his shoulder glistened sickeningly in the light of the single fluorescent bulb on the ceiling. The harsh white light made Dean's bruises stand out sickeningly.

"Let's see. . . Maybe we should play a little game," Steve said.

Sam gritted his teeth as Dean tensed with fear.

"You fucking sadist," Sam hissed. "I swear to God, when I get out-"

"The rules will be these," Steve continued, interrupting Sam as if he weren't there. "Rule Number One. I ask the questions. Rule Number Two. For every word you speak that isn't directed toward answering me, that will count as one lash. Insults are double."

"Fuck you and your fucking games," Sam snarled.

Steve grinned at him. 

"That's six, plus the eleven from earlier. And since they were both insulting, I would say we should start off at thirty four."

Realizing what he had just done, Sam shut his mouth in horror. Dean was facing the wall to Sam's left, so he could only see half of his brother's face. The fear and pain written on it was evident.

Steve smiled and began to whip Dean.

Sam watched in horror as the black whip came down unendingly on Dean's bare back. It split the skin in the places it landed more than once, spraying blood and setting it running down the older Winchester's back. Sam stayed dead silent, afraid that any sound he made would set Steve off or cause Dean more pain.

The man got to thirty and didn't show any signs of stopping. He wasn't a particularly strong man, but he looked like he went to the gym at least three times a week. He was around thirty or forty, with the first signs of thinning and gray hair starting to show in the sides of his head. His face was lined, but not overly so. Steve looked very normal. The only thing that spoke of his sadistic nature was the shattered look in his watery blue eyes.

When Steve had finished with thirty four, Dean sagged against the post, gasping.

"Great! Now I can ask the first question," Steve said. Dean shuddered, and Sam had to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything and possibly incurring Steve's wrath.

"Where is John Winchester?"

No sound.

Steve frowned. "You know, if you don't answer, that's an automatic ten lashes. Extra ten every five seconds. One, two, three, f-"

"I don' know," Dean choked out. "Please, God, I don' know where John goddamn Winchester is." His voice was broken and raspy from dehydration and pain.

Steve frowned. "That's not a good answer, but it's still technically an answer. And since I'm a nice guy, I'll give you half of what I would normally."

He gave Dean seven more lashes, making the older Winchester grit his teeth against the rising whimper of pain in his throat. Sam clenched his jaw so hard he was afraid he'd break some of his teeth, glaring daggers at Steve.

The man paid him no heed. "Where is John Winchester? This time I'm only accepting real answers," he said. Dean dropped his head down, his shoulders sagging with defeat. 

"Please," Sam begged suddenly. "Please, we don't know. He doesn't know. _We don't know._ We can't tell you."

Steve regarded him for a second.

Sam waited, barely breathing. Dean had tensed in his position kneeling at Steve's feet, his eyes staring straight at the ground. Steve narrowed his eyes at Sam.

Sam held his breath.

"That was fifteen," Steve finally said. "Speak again, Sammy, and your brother will be getting a lot more than that."

He lashed Dean's back. The older Winchester, who had been zoning out and wasn't prepared for the pain, arched his back and grunted in pain.

"Almost," Steve said encouragingly. "Almost! Now scream. Maybe if you scream, I'll let you off early."

They both knew this was a lie. If anything, Steve would just turn on Sam, and Sam knew Dean would rather die than allow that to happen.

Steve struck Dean again. He gasped in agony, sagging against the metal whipping post.

Steve suddenly began to whip Dean in earnest, going way past fifteen. He was starting to get more noises out of the oldest Winchester, and it was obvious he was getting excited.

Steve continued whipping Dean until he realized that shredding the older Winchester's back wasn't going to get the results he wanted out of him. So he turned to the wall where the torture instruments were laid out. Sam jerked on his chains fruitlessly, feeling something pop painfully in his left wrist as he did so.

Steve picked up the high powered hose and turned it on. He turned to Dean, who was shaking with fear, and gave him a manic grin.

"You have one last chance," Steve said. "Tell me where John Winchester is."  
Dean swallowed, his throat bobbing past the hand-shaped bruises that still lingered there, stark against pale and sweaty skin.

"Fuck off," he breathed.

"No! Dean!" Sam shouted.

Steve twisted the nozzle on the hose and a great gout of water shot out. It crashed into Dean's back at a speed that could probably bruise. Dean, who hadn't been expecting the cold or the force, cried out for the first time in the five (or was it six?) days they had been here. Sam roared at Steve, who was laughing like a child who had just gotten a new bike for Christmas.

The combination of Dean screaming, the hose spraying, Steve laughing, and Sam shouting made the small room practically vibrate with noise. It rattled in Sam's head, his brother's agonized cries worming into his brain and settling there, food for the nightmares that plagued his sleep sometimes.

Steve kept the hose on Dean until he stopped screaming, which he did when he finally passed out. Sam almost sighed in relief as his brother lost consciousness and sagged against the metal post, his shredded back dark and bruised now as well as stripped red and raw.

"Fuck you," Sam rasped at Steve, his voice still not fully there. "Stay away from my brother."

Steve turned on him, his blue eyes curious. Fear traced cold fingers down Sam's back as those shattered eyes regarded him.

"I wonder if you would be able to scream as loud as your brother," Steve mused. "You'd probably break faster than him. But would your screams be as beautiful or pleasing?"

Sam, drawing on a choice statement from Dean that he had spat at John in a recent argument, glared at Steve. "Go fuck yourself with sandpaper."

Steve didn't react, just continued to watch Sam with interest in his eyes.

Finally, he shrugged, grinning. "We'll just have to find out."

Steve walked toward him and Sam flinched, expecting Steve to start torturing him too. But the sadistic man just headed for the door.

"Take care of your brother, Sammy," he said in a sing-song voice. Then he opened the door, exited the room, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo. Scary. I'll probably update soon. It's getting into the weekend and I love writing, so I might be able to post several chapters a day. See y'all soon! ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back, as promised. I've realized that I haven't clarified some things, which I aim to change.  
First, I have no knowledge of the medical field aside from ULTRA basic stuff. So if you're a person who really needs stuff to be accurate/believable, I apologize. I'm not accurate and sometimes I pull things out of my ass because I think they sound nice and work with the story. So if something doesn't add up, please tell me, but also understand that I have NO CLUE what I'm doing when it comes to the medical field.  
Also, the whole Sam and Stanford thing. I diverted from canon a little and made Sam a little younger when he went to college than he was in the show. John also (obviously) didn't disappear. Don't think to hard about how that works out, because it doesn't. The POINT is, Sam went to Stanford for like, a month. Then Dean dragged him back, and they both got captured a few months later. Basically, Sam is 19 and Dean is 23, because I think they were adorable when they were younger and I think it works with the story better. Sorry for any confusion and/or annoyance. ANYWAY, I should probably stop blabbering now.   
Enjoy the chapter!

**Four**

John Winchester threw the match down the grave, chuckling to himself as the bones flared alight, sending off a strong smell of sulfur.

"Serves you right, you old hag," he muttered, rubbing his aching shoulder. The murder victim had thrown him into a few tombstones before he had finally been able to subdue her and dig her bones up so he could salt and burn them.

John's left shoulder was aching faintly, and his head was pulsing with the need for a strong drink. Preferably whiskey or something stronger. 

He headed back to the Impala. It was a cold night, made colder still by the brisk wind rushing through the flat expanse of the cemetery. John puffed out a breath outlined in white in the cold air and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

He frowned as he felt the surface of something cold and smooth. Pulling it out, he found it was his cell phone. Luckily, the old hag hadn't broken it when she'd been throwing her fit, but it still struck something unsettling in John.

_It's fine. Probably just the old nerves. Could be fixed by a drink._

John stopped, though, one hand on the Impala's roof, the other holding his phone.

He had learned, through years of hunting and relying only on himself, to trust his instincts. Something didn't feel right.

He flipped the phone open. It glowed in the darkness, showing two missed calls from Dean.

They had been from over a week ago. 

John frowned. It wasn't often that his oldest called him. He generally tried to avoid his father if he could, especially after the whole no-you-can't-go-to-Stanford-Sammy ordeal. But these calls had been made a week ago. If something was wrong, Dean would have called again.

_Dad, I have a better chance of winning the damn lottery than getting you to answer the phone._

John growled, brushing the accusatory voice of Dean out of his head. It didn't help to be thinking of what a failure of a father he was right now.

He needed to think. The town he had left his sons in wasn't dangerous. There had been no supernatural activity.

But. . .

_But sometimes humans are worse bastards than a vamp or a werewolf could ever be._

John flipped his phone shut, opened the door, and swung himself into the Impala. In a few moments, he was roaring off in the direction of his sons.

Sam was disgusted in himself. He wasn't the one being tortured day in and day out, but he still felt like he was breaking down, like his mind was slowly coming undone.

There was something about listening to the person you love the most in the world scream until their voice gave out that tore at Sam's sanity. Something about being literally fifteen feet away and being unable to do much more than scream useless insults and empty words of comfort.

He felt off. Strange. Weird. Like he wanted to cry and scream and beg at the same time. Like he wanted to offer up any information he had on his father in exchange for Dean. Who cared about John? Sam didn't. Especially not when it was him or Dean.

Sam knew that what he was feeling was partially caused by sleep deprivation, dehydration, and starvation all rolled into one. That, along with the trauma and shock this whole thing was probably causing, all added up to one thing:

Sam was losing his _fucking_ mind.

He wanted to talk to Dean about it, but both of their voices were so trashed they could barely understand each other. That, and the fact that Dean almost always spent his moments in between sessions of torture in utter unconsciousness. Sam tried to sleep as much as he could too, but it was hard to when every noise had him tensing in preparation for. . .

For what?

That was the problem. Sam couldn't _do_ anything. He couldn't convince Steve to torture him instead. He couldn't comfort Dean. He couldn't even come up with good insults anymore.

But he couldn't just. . . fall asleep. That would be wrong on so many levels. And that left Sam in an unfortunate limbo. He was useless, but he didn't know how to _stop being_ useless. All he knew was that he was the only thing keeping Dean alive at this point, and vice versa.

So Sam stayed awake. He shouted insults and pleas at Steve when he was torturing Dean and tried to comfort his brother and ease him into unconsciousness when Steve left. And all the while, his grip on reality was slowly slipping away.

When Dean was knocked out and Sam was alone and couldn't sleep, his mind wandered.

Where _was_ John? The million dollar question was still unanswered. Steve was still convinced they knew and were holding the information back, but Sam knew the real truth:

They had no idea where their father was, would be, or had been.

He could be dead. He could be halfway across the country. Sam and Dean had no idea, and it was kind of terrifying Sam. Would John return and find that they weren't there? Yes. But what would he do when he found the motel room empty, the rental car gone, no trace of the boys?

Sam, honestly, had no idea.

He would have liked that John would search relentlessly for them. He would have liked to think that he wouldn't ever stop until he found his sons. He would have liked to think that it was only a matter of time before John busted through the stupid metal door and shot Steve in the head.

But the reality was, Sam didn't know what John would do. Maybe he wouldn't care and would go back to hunting the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Maybe he would search, realize it was pointless, and give up. Maybe he was dead and wouldn't even make it back to the motel.

The unfortunate truth was that Sam didn't think it mattered. Dean was getting weaker and weaker every day, and it was only a matter of time before Steve turned on Sam and did the same thing. And after that. . .

Sam didn't like to think of that.

He occupied himself by counting the days. Steve came in after long intervals that were often uneven and strange. It was a coin toss of whether or not he would be gone three hours or thirty minutes. Sometimes he didn't return for what felt like days. Sometimes Dean only had time to slump to the floor before he was back.

Still. Sam was able to get a rough estimate for how long they had been in this hell. He could safely assume it had been at least a week, maybe two.

However long it had been, it was too long. Sam knew that if something didn't change soon, he and Dean wouldn't last much longer. 

Silently, he prayed for his father to hurry the hell up and figure things out. As much as Sam hated to admit it, John Winchester was most likely their only chance.

The thought terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! We got some of John's perspective, and a lot of Sam's internal conflict. I'll try to update again with a little more from Dean. For those of you who are here for the comfort part of hurt/comfort, don't worry. That will come soon, and it will be so ridiculously fluffy you'll choke.  
So hang in there. I'll be back soon! Thanks again for reading this crazy excuse for a fanfiction!  
~ Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! This one is kind of short, as are the next few, so I'll try to offset that by posting often. I'm in the process of editing chapter six, so it should be posted soon!  
Also, an important note. The chapter is written in a sort of confusing fashion, what with the parentheses and all. Whatever is between these (___) is basically a random thought that's going through Dean's brain. He's kind of losing his mind because he's starving and dehydrated and scared, so his thoughts aren't the most coordinated. Also, the work switches tenses (between first and third) quite a lot, which was also deliberate. Dean's brain is pretty wigged out right now, but don't worry. I'll fix it soon. :) For now, enjoy, and don't hesitate to tell me if it's too confusing or there's any grammar mistakes. Ciao!

**Five**

There was something wrong.

Steve was excited. More so than usual. And that usually meant something new (how creative could this guy get?) for Dean.

That, or Dean's worst nightmare was about to come to life.

It seemed to be a normal day at first. Steve kicked Dean around a little, burned a mark into his right arm, then stopped, regarding him carefully.

Dean had fully lost his voice for the foreseeable future. It wasn't even a rasp. Now it was just a silent breath of air.

This was both good and bad. It was good because it entertained (God, couldn't he just find enjoyment in golf or something?) Steve, but it was bad because Steve got bored easily.

Today, he turned on Sam.

Dean could see the fear in his younger brother's eyes as Steve turned on him, a grin on his face a knife in his hand. Dean tried to get up, he really did, but his arms reminded him of limp (store-bought, heat-it-up-in-a-microwave) noodles. They would barely respond to him (bad arms) and when they did, they didn't hold his weight (stupid, noodle-y arms).

Dean tried and failed to rasp out an insult. Steve didn't even look at him.

Nothing was working today.

Sam stared up at Steve with fear in his eyes and determination on his face.

"Maybe I'll have more luck with little Sammy," Steve said.

_Fuck you_, Dean wanted to say. _Fuck you and your _(you can't call him that, you can't call him Sammy. _I_ call him Sammy.) _stupid words. Fuck you and your sadistic games._

But he couldn't speak because (GOD DAMN IT, HIS VOICE WAS AS USELESS AS HIS ARMS) his voice wasn't working.

Nothing was working today.

Dean's body, despite the fear coursing through it, realizes that it is being given a break in its torture. His eyes (no, you can't fucking _close_) start to slide shut.

Shit.

He can't fall asleep. He can't (fail Dad) leave Sammy alone. He can't.

Dean forces his eyes open, even though they just try to slide shut again (no, you can't _fucking close._)

Nothing was working today.

Then Sam screams, and all traces of sleepiness are gone.

Because if there's one thing that overrides all senses, all instincts to rest and recover, all rational thought, it is the sound of Sam in pain.

Sam screams again, and Dean tenses.

Steve is leaning over his brother (_my_ little brother, you sick bastard. Stay away from him!) and smiling, using the same lighter he used on Dean a moment ago to burn a section of Sam's skin. His brother is gritting his teeth, the cords of his neck standing out as he strains to keep quiet.

It doesn't work. Steve flicks off the lighter and presses a hand cruelly on the burn point. Sam screams.

Dean needs to (get _up_) get to Sam. He needs to get up. He needs to.

But once again, he fails (Sammy and Dad) to push himself up.

Nothing was working today.

Then Sam screams again and Dean can't stay still any longer.

He swallowed a cry of pain as he pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the agony coursing through every vein of his body.

His mind was taken over by one train of rational thought. 

Get to Sam.

Get up.

Get to Sam.

Get up.

Get to Sam.

Get _up._

Dean pushed himself up, gasping in pain. Steve was still too focused on Sam to notice him.

_Not for long._

Dean dragged himself forward, unsure about what he was going to do, only knowing that he needed to (protect Sam) get to his younger brother.

Sam screamed again as Steve sliced his skin open with a knife.

_Knife._

The knife? There wasn't a knife anywhere near Dean.

But he needed something he could (stab) kill Steve with. 

Something.

There are no knives.

Dean's (shoulder) body hurt like hell as he dragged himself forward. Steve was now only a few feet in front of him. The agony was (mind-breaking) unbearable.

But Sam was still screaming.

Dean tried to raise himself so he could (stab Steve) do _something_, but he was too weak.

Nothing was working today.

Sam screams again, this time a drawn-out, strangled one.

_Protect Sammy, Dean._

Protect Sammy? He had done a shitty job of that. It (wasn't his fault) was pathetic, actually.

But (he doesn't have time) now isn't the time to think of that.

Dean needed to get up, and he needed to get up _now._

Sam screamed again, and it sounded suspiciously like a sob.

_He's only 19. He can't handle this. It isn't fair._

_ He should be at Stanford._

_ But he isn't. He's here. With me. And I'll be damned if I let Sam endure any more pain because of me._

It's the first clear thought to enter Dean's head in days.

Dean shoved himself up, bracing his hands under his knees. He grabbed the edge of Sam's chair. Steve, finally noticing him, doesn't even have time to look surprised as he turns to find Dean behind him.

All Dean had time to see was Sam's relieved face before he yanked the knife out of his shoulder and embedded it in Steve's.

The man howled in pain, staggering away from Dean and Sam. Dean sagged down to the floor at Sam's feet, exhausted. He'd done his job, Sammy was safe.

He really wished he could stay awake to see (Steve die) Steve's pained face a little longer. But Dean was drained from getting up and stabbing him, and nothing was working today.

His eyes drooped closed and he passed out.

John Winchester stood in the middle of the empty hotel room, staring at the singular piece of paper dated two and a half weeks ago.

_I have your sons. Let's talk._

There was an address and nothing else.

John stared down at the paper, an old sort of anger filling him. He had promised, _promised, _Mary that he would protect their sons.

And here he was, holding a ransom that had been distributed two and a half weeks ago.

It was inexcusable. Unacceptable. Impossible.

John clenched the paper in his hands. Whoever had hurt his sons was going to have hell to pay.

No one messed with John Winchester. And no one messed with his sons.

So, yes, he'd talk to these bastards.

And then he'd load them with enough silver and lead to run a fucking jewelry store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! You'll probably get a lot of chapters in the next few days, as it's the weekend and I have nothing (homework. . . I'll procrastinate a little more) to do. See you soon!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sooooo. . . This chapter is short. I'll probably post later today, depending on how I feel the editing of the seventh chapter is going.  
Also, a special shoutout to angels_rdvd64 for their support and reviews! You're awesome!  
Enjoy the chapter!

**Six**

Sam was screaming.

It wasn't the pain anymore, though that was still a very relevant thing. No. It was because of Steve.

How Dean had managed to drag up the energy to heave himself up and stab Steve was and would forever be beyond Sam. It didn't matter right now.

What did matter was that Dean had missed.

Steve had a knife sticking out of his shoulder, not his chest. And he was still very much alive.

Alive and angry. Very, very angry. He had recovered from his shock and pain and was currently kicking the shit out of Dean's unconscious body. He paid no heed to Sam's breathless, noiseless screams.

Steve was roaring curses, the knife still sticking out of his shoulder. He looked fucking insane.

He _was_ fucking insane.

"Stop!" Sam rasped. "Stop! Don't hurt him!"

It made no difference. Steve kicked and punched and shoved as hard as he could, bruising and breaking and destroying. Sam was sure that if Steve didn't stop soon, he would kill Dean.

The thought terrified him.

Sam jerked forward, begging with all he had. He pleaded with Steve, too dehydrated for tears. His mouth was barely wet enough to form coherent words anyway. But he still tried.

Because Dean wasn't waking up. He was being jerked around like a rag doll, a helpless victim to Steve's manic kicks and punches.

Sam turned from begging Steve to stop to begging Dean to wake up at some point, his voice cracked and broken.

He begged Dean to open his eyes, his voice barely audible over Steve's angered shrieks and the sound of the man's heavy breathing as he beat Dean black and blue. Skin split and blood smeared.

Sam begged.

Dean stayed unconscious.

Steve kept kicking and punching.

"Dean, please. Dean, please wake up!" Sam sobbed, yanking on his chains. Dean didn't wake up.

His brother's golden tan skin was pale with blood loss, marred with dark bruises and angry red cuts. The spidery red of infection spread from some of the gashes, the shiny discoloring of burns marring the rest of the skin that managed to peek through. Dean's handsome face, like Sam's, was swollen and puffy. 

Steve's foot connected with Dean's shoulder and a sickening popping noise sounded. Sam roared and jerked forward, his wrist snapping painfully. White hot pain flashed for a second, then was overcome by fear.

Fear for Dean. Fear for the fact that his brother didn't even look like he was breathing anymore.

"Dean. . . Dean, please," Sam sobbed.

Dean still didn't wake.

Steve continued to beat him. He was gasping for air and sweating profusely, but he kept at it, kicking the shit out of the older Winchester repeatedly.

The blood from the knife jammed into Steve's shoulder was seeping out sluggishly, mixing with Dean's on the rough cement floor.

The air in the room was unbearable. It was thick and hot, smelling of sweat, fear, blood, and the stomach-turning smell of pumpkin spice candles. They were still burning in the corner, nearly at the bottom of their glass jars. Steve had lit them again so he could heat a knife the other day, and he had forgotten to blow them out. The room now smelled like the choking, artificial scent of fall.

Sam would have vomited if he'd had anything in his stomach.

Steve continued to beat Dean.

Sam continued to scream.

The air smelled of blood and sweat and pumpkin spice. And Sam was going to vomit, he was going to pass out, something was going to give-

A noise sounded from outside the door, the first Sam had heard in weeks.

Sam paused, his chest heaving with sobs. Steve stopped too, going completely still. His chest was heaving too, this time with exertion.

For a moment, there was dead silence in the room.

Then the impenetrable metal door came crashing in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cliff-hanger! I'm pretty sure you all know what's going to happen, but I'll pretend you don't. I'll post later today once I finish editing on my next chapter. See you soon!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the second chapter today. You do not even know how much I rushed editing, so tell me if there's any mistakes and I'll fix them. There isn't much more to say, except that it's sort of short again. It'll get better, I promise. Enjoy the chapter!

**Seven**

The first thing that hit John was the smell of pumpkin spice candles.

_What the fuck?_

Then the smells of blood and fear reached his nose, and he tensed.

Inside the room was his worst nightmare.

His youngest, Sam, was chained to a metal chair in the corner, his face swollen and puffy, tears and snot streaming down his face. He was wearing torn, filthy, bloody clothes, and he looked like he might pass out.

That was nowhere near as bad as Dean.

John's oldest son was lying on the floor, his shoulder jutting at a sickening angle, his chest warped with broken ribs, and every available spot of skin burned, cut open, or bruised. His green eyes were closed, and his chest made an awful rattling noise when he breathed.

Standing above him was a man, the one that John now pointed his gun at.

"You have five seconds to tell me who the fuck you are and who you work for," he growled.

The man chuckled. His blue eyes were shattered, insane, and he had blood splattered all over his gray V-neck sweater and jeans. There was a knife sticking out of his shoulder. If John had wanted to bet, he would have guessed that was the product of one of his sons' attempts to escape.

"My name is Steve. I work for myself. And I've been waiting for you," the man said. "The boys haven't answered my questions about your location, but it seems that doesn't matter anymore."  
"What the fuck did you want with me?" John demanded, watching the man like a hawk.

"I wanted you to see this. To know that you Winchesters aren't invincible, and that you can be broken," Steve said simply. He smiled over at Sam.

John's eyes flicked over to his son's for the barest second. In that moment, Steve ducked down and yanked Dean's unconscious body up in front of him. John barely stopped himself from squeezing the trigger and shooting his own son.

Steve grinned at him from behind Dean's limp form.

"See, John, you have one weakness. Your sons are, no matter what you say or do to them, too precious to you. That makes for excellent bait, and even better entertainment."

John was starting to realize that this man was not only a fucking lunatic, but also completely human. It wasn't even that his teeth were a normal size or that he didn't smell of sulfur. It was just that his eyes, shattered as they were, seemed so remarkably. . . human.

It kind of terrified John.

He shoved the fear down, reminding himself that his sons were hurt and they needed his help. That last thought burned away any trace of horror or uncertainty. There was only one thing on John's mind:

Kill this bastard and get his sons the fuck away from here. _Now._

He tightened his grip on the gun.

"Why did you want me here?" he asked again. 

Steve said nothing, just sort of grinned at John. His white teeth were perfectly set, gleaming in the light of the single fluorescent light overhead.

"I wanted you here to see the fun too, John," Steve said again. "I've had so much fun."

"Fuck you." The voice was broken and rasping, but it was there. John didn't take his eyes off Steve for a second, but he felt like collapsing with relief at Sam's voice. 

Steve's smiling face turned stormy. "Unfortunately, they were very rude most of the time. You could do with teaching them better manners."  
"Dad," Sam gasped out behind John. "Dad, please kill him. Please, Dad, Dean's hurt."

John was torn between wanting to comfort Sam and wanting to tell him that yes, he fucking knows that Dean is hurt.

He settled for staying quiet, trying to figure out how he was going to blow this bastard's brain out without hurting Dean.

"Now that I'm here," he said, stalling, "what do you plan to do?"

"Well, I planned to have some more fun with you added in, but it seems that my guards didn't quite do their jobs," Steve replied, frowning even more. His grip was tightening on Dean, something that made John twitch.

Yes, the four guards hadn't "quite done their jobs". John had broken their necks in under two minutes, which was a new record for him. He didn't even feel guilty about it. The fuckers had been trying to keep him from his sons.

Like this one was doing.

John gritted his teeth.

"That's right. I killed them. And now I'm going to splatter your brains against the back wall."

Steve grinned. "Really? With your precious son so close? He could get hurt, you know."

Yes, John knew. He knew that Dean could get hurt. He knew that he already _was_ hurt, fatally so. And he knew that time was short.

Time was _very fucking short._

John had no plan. In fact, he was pretty sure his gun only had a few shots in it. He'd gone right from the motel room to the Impala to track down this fucker and hadn't thought to restock.

_That's what I get for bad planning._

John stalled some more, not really knowing why, just knowing it was important.

"Why would you do this anyway?" he asked, genuinely curious. 

"I told you," Steve replied. "I find it entertaining."

"You're sadistic."  
"I'm resourceful. You know how boring it is to watch TV these days? Always the same football game, the same show with different characters under a different name. This, _this_ is live entertainment," Steve said.

Dean's eyelids were fluttering. He was starting to wake up. John continued to stall.

"That's disgusting."  
"It's _true._ Television is so full of crap these days. This is always bringing new surprises. I learn new things every day," Steve told John earnestly, as if he were talking about the plot of a good book he was reading. "Did you know that the human body can only go for three weeks without food before it starts to shut down?"

Dean's eyes had fluttered open.

He still hung limp in Steve's arms, but he was awake now. Blearily, his pain-glazed green eyes took in the scene in front of him. They widened when he saw John.

The oldest Winchester gave a near-imperceptible shake of his head, disguising it as disgust for what Steve had just told him.

"You just. . . experiment on people?" he demanded.

Steve nodded. "Yes. It's quite enterta-"

In that moment, John was very grateful for his son's skills in the hunting field.

Dean stomped his boot down on the bridge of Steve's foot and cracked his head back. The sound of his skull crunching against Steve's nose filled the room right before the man's cry of pain echoed off the walls.

To Steve's credit, he knew to maintain his grip on Dean even in the midst of the pain of a broken nose. This was something John had decidedly not been expecting.

He had a split second to realize that Dean had passed out again before he could get out of the way.

Then he pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliff-hanger! I really am sorry. Kind of. Maybe I'll make you wait on this one a little longer. . . *smiles evilly*  
ANYWAY, school starts again tomorrow, so it might not even by my choice to make you wait. Sorry. I'll try to get chapter eight out as soon as possible. For now, have a great day and I'll see you soon!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for making you wait on the new chapter so long. I know that was especially mean because the last chapter ended on a cliffhanger.   
I hope everyone had a great Halloween (if you celebrate it). I know I had fun pretending to be a prop and then scaring people as they walked by to get candy from my house.  
Alright, I'm done rambling. Enjoy the chapter!

**Eight**

There was a loud bang. Dean fell to the ground, agony racing up his body as he collided with the cement floor.

Sam was screaming something, his voice barely more than a raspy whisper. Steve was laughing manically.

Dean closed his eyes as he lay on the floor, wondering if he'd been shot. If his father, his savior, his hero, had accidentally shot him.

Then he felt the thump of a body on the floor and knew it wasn't so.

Something clattered close to Dean's head, the noise of it far too loud. He whimpered and curled into himself, the movement causing his wounds to tear open and start bleeding again.

Someone was kneeling next to him.

Steve.

Dean choked on a sob and curled into a tighter ball.

Steve was grabbing him, hurting him with his large, rough hands, turning him over.

_Please, no. I can't take any more._

"-ean. Dean, open your eyes. Come on, buddy. Open your eyes."

_Dad?_

"Yeah, it's me, buddy. It's okay. He's. . . the bastard's dead. You're safe, buddy. Open your eyes and look at me."

Dean tried. He cracked his eyes open, whimpering at the glare of our fluorescent light. John shifted so he was blocking the light.

He was okay. Steve was dead. He hadn't been shot. Dad was here.

Dean stared up at his father, shocked to see tears running down his face.

"Dad?" he rasped.

"I'm here buddy," John replied, smiling reassuringly. He was holding Dean up, cradling him in his leather-jacketed arms.

"Dad. . . -ammy," Dean choked out.

"I know. I'm going to get him out. If I leave, will you promise to stay awake?"

"-eah. Pr'mise," Dean slurred.

John looked him over worriedly, then placed him gently on the ground. Dean's head lolled to the side. He saw Steve's dead body on the floor next to him, a bullet hole gaping in the middle of his forehead.

_Good. I'm glad he's dead._

Still, the sight of the dead body, with the look of surprise pasted over it, was not something Dean was too thrilled to be seeing. He desperately wished he could look away, but his body was too heavy and his neck wasn't moving.

The blood that was still pumping out of Steve's forehead was red and hot. _Human._

Dean was suddenly sure that if he looked at Steve's dead body for another second, he would hurl up whatever was left in his stomach. Since he couldn't turn his head away, he closed his eyes.

Vaguely, Dean heard the clinking of metal and swearing. The room still smelled of pumpkin spice candles.

The sickly sweet scent drifted into Dean's nose, numbing his brain. He felt slow, tired, heavy. He could barely feel the agony of his wounds anymore. His breathing sounded slow to his ears.

_Am I dying?_

Dean found that he wasn't afraid of the answer to that question, just curious. What would death feel like? Would he see his mother? Would Steve be there?

Numbly, almost indifferently, Dean realized he was breaking his promise to his father. 

But he was too exhausted to really think much more than _Sorry, Dad_ before his muscles relaxed and he passed out again.

John gave up trying to unchain Sam and just shot the padlock to his chains. He hated the way his youngest son flinched at the loud sound.

The second Sam was free, he leaped out of the chair, toward Dean. His legs gave out and he collapsed, beginning to drag himself toward his brother instead.

"Dean," Sam choked out.

John cursed loudly as he knelt next to his oldest and found that he was unconscious again.

"We need to get to a hospital," he told no one in particular.

"Hospitals are bad, Dad," Sam rasped.

"I can't treat Dean. I don't have enough expertise," John explained shakily. _I don't know if I can save him_ was what he meant.

He choked back the tears that were still streaming down his cheeks and looked down at Sam.

"Sam, can you stand?"

The youngest Winchester set his jaw. "'Can try," he breathed. He shoved himself up, his arms shaking with the effort of lifting his body. John helped him get to his knees, then his feet. Sam swayed a little, but he seemed relatively steady.

"I'll give you water in the car," John promised. "You need to get up those stairs and into the Impala."

Sam nodded, a soldier taking orders.

He turned and began to stagger for the doors.

John looked around the room one last time, swallowing his disgust for the man who had once inhabited the now-cooling body lying a few feet away.

John knelt down and slipped his arms underneath Dean's shoulders and knees, cringing when his son whimpered in pain.

"This is gonna hurt, buddy," John whispered, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

He lifted up, grunting at the weight of his oldest son, starved and malnourished as he was. John stumbled for the door, puffing out a breath of exertion as he shifted Dean's broken body in his arms.

He exited the room that smelled of pumpkin spice and blood and started up the stairs that led from the basement. He found Sam out in front of the house, leaning against the Impala for dear life.

"Get the keys out of my pocket and unlock the car," John said calmly. Sam complied with shaking fingers and unfocused eyes. He collapsed into the backseat of the Impala.

"I need you to look after Dean, alright Sammy? Tell me. . . tell me if he stops breathing," John ordered. Sam nodded mechanically, his eyes wide. At least they were a little clearer now. John knew that the task of looking after his brother would keep Sam from going into shock, at least for now. He needed to get to the nearest hospital.

Now. Like, right now.

John placed Dean gingerly in the back, resting his head on Sam's lap. He shut the door after his boys and got in the front, not even daring to look back at the house they had just come out of.

John looked to the road in front of him and floored the accelerator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one is a bit of a cliffhanger too, but not nearly as bad as the last one. I'll try to be more consistent in updating, but I can't promise anything. :)  
See you all later!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo! I'm back with a new chapter. As you can probably guess, it has to do with the hospital.  
Now here's the thing. I am nowhere near any of those wonderful people who call themselves doctors and nurses and such and save people's lives on a daily basis. I have very limited knowledge of what happens in a hospital and how to treat a person's injuries. If you have problems with how I've written something out (like, if it's glaringly obvious that I'm wrong about something), don't hesitate to tell me! As it is, I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing when it comes to hospital scenes, so there are probably going to be a lot of mistakes.  
Soooo, yeah. Have fun, enjoy the story, and don't hesitate to tell me if something is off and I will fix it! :)

**Nine**

The hospital was far. Too far.

John was on edge. The dark, past-midnight streets were near-empty. He drove like a fucking maniac, going seventy over the limit and causing the Impala's engine to roar loudly in the silent night.

John was constantly anticipating hearing Sam's panicked voice telling him that Dean had stopped breathing, but his youngest son stayed silent, save for a faint whisper of comfort to his older brother now and then.

_I'll have to explain when they get to the hospital. I'll have to deal with the fucking police._

_ First, I need to_ get _to the damn hospital._

John accelerated past one hundred, listening to the usually-comforting noise of the Impala's engines working at high speed.

"Dad, when are we gonna get there?" Sam rasped frantically. "I think his heartbeat is slowing down."

_SHIT._

"We're getting there, Sammy," John rumbled, sparing a glance behind him at his two sons. The action caused him to nearly smash into a singular Toyota that was rattling along the road at four in the morning. John barely had a second to see their surprised-what-is-this-maniac-doing-driving-at-that-speed look. Then they were gone.

John upped the speed, pushing the Impala to its limit as they roared down the highway. He had seen a hospital around here somewhere, but where. . .

There.

John slammed on the brakes, screeching twenty yards down the road before yanking the steering wheel to the right. They pulled into the parking lot behind the ER. John opened the door and heaved Dean into his arms.

"Keep up, Sammy," he said gruffly, too panicked to feel guilty for how cruel he sounded.

To his credit, Sam managed to keep pace with John as they ran into the ER. All it took was John shouting that his sons needed help before several doctors and nurses were shoving their way forward.

They took Dean from him and placed him on a gurney, doing the same to Sam. Both of his sons were rushed from the room.

John, in his panicked state, tried to follow them. He was stopped by several nurses and very nearly knocked one's teeth down his throat.

"Sir, please. We need to stabilize them," the man said.

John backed down at that, realizing he would be doing more harm than good. Unfortunately for him, the second he calmed, he realized the police had arrived.

"Sir, we have some questions for you," the lead officer told him.

With a resigned sigh, John followed the officer to a side office.

Four hours later, John was ready to kill someone. No one was telling him anything about Sam and Dean, and the sun was rising. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the exhaustion of the last hunt was catching up to him. He was dead on his feet.

John chugged several cups of coffee from the break room, shaking his head repeatedly to keep his eyes from falling closed. He needed to stay awake for his boys.

The cops had finally released him after hours of extensive questioning. He had given them the ransom note and the address to Steve's house, too tired to fight the fact that this was probably going to hinder his hunting for the next few weeks.

A nurse walked toward him. It took John a few moments to realize the young lady was talking to him.

"Mr. Winchester?"

John looked up. "Yes?"

"We have an update on your sons," the nurse replied. John stood, all feelings of sleepiness gone. 

"What? Where? Are they okay?" he demanded.

The nurse looked slightly overwhelmed. "Well, Mr. Winchester, your youngest son is doing just fine. We have him on medication and we're working on getting him the nutrients and water he needs."  
John nodded, running his hand through his hair. "And Dean? My oldest?"  
The nurse winced. "Well, sir, he's not looking good. There was a lot of internal damage as well as external, and some of his wounds are badly infected. We're working on getting him on antibiotics, but we can't pump him too full of medication or his body won't be able to handle it."

"So?"

"So to get him the nutrients and antibiotics needed, we had to cut his pain meds."

John stared at her. "He has no pain meds?"

"No."

John looked away, puffing a breath out harshly. That was fine. That was okay. Dean could handle a little pain. He was strong. He was a good soldier. He had survived worse.

_Right?_

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Please," John said tiredly. "Just call me John. Can I see them?"

The nurse looked sympathetic. "You can see Sam, sir. Dean is still being operated on."

John nodded, going to follow her deeper into the hospital. She led him down sterile hallways lit by bright lights, her white shoes padding quietly on the floor in comparison to his heavy work boots.

The nurse came to a stop in front of a door and let him inside. John thanked her and entered.

The room smelled of cleaner. On the bed, his youngest son lay under a thin blanket, his face pale.

"Dad?" he rasped.

"Shh, buddy, don't try to talk," John shushed, coming to the bedside. He grabbed a chair and plunked down in it, smiling tiredly at his youngest son.

"Dad, where's Dean?" Sam rasped, ignoring his father's order.

John sighed. "He's still being worked on. Don't worry, buddy. He'll pull through. Dean's strong."

Sam nodded, looking down. Someone had washed his hair. It was curling past his ears, making a slow and determined path to his shoulders. John absentmindedly thought that they needed to cut it soon.

"Dad?" Sam asked quietly.

John looked up. "Yeah?"

"How'd you find us?"

"I went back to the motel. I found a note from that bastard, asking to meet me. Then I busted in there and got you boys out," John explained.

"If he hadn't left the note-"  
"Don't think about that, Sam," John cut him off harshly. Sam looked down. Softening, John rubbed at his face. "Sorry buddy. I just. . . you can't think like that. No what ifs, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said softly.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, trying to change the subject. Sam shrugged.

"'D feel better if De were here."

"Me too," John admitted. The lewd jokes and sarcastic comments that his oldest always offered had always kept the atmosphere in a situation like this lighter. Without him, the room seemed oppressive and empty.

They sat in silence for a while, each taking in the comfort of the other.

"Dad?" Sam finally asked. "Do'ya think. . . do you think De will be okay?"

John wanted to say yes, of course he would. But he didn't. Because he knew what sort of okay Sam was talking about, and he wasn't quite sure of the answer to that yet.

"I don't know Sam," he finally said, sighing. "But I can tell you that Dean is strong, and he's handled worse things than this before. He'll make it."

_He has to_ went unsaid. Because John wasn't sure what would happen if Dean _didn't_-

_No. No what ifs. I just told Sam to cut it out. I need to stop too._

So John didn't allow himself to think of the what ifs. He didn't allow himself to imagine what it must be like for Dean to be alone in a room with strange people, struggling to figure out what was happening. He didn't allow himself to wonder what damage that bastard Steve might have done _inside_ his son. What might have happened in Dean's mind as well as to his body.

Instead, John just sat quietly next to his youngest son as Sam slowly fell back asleep, lulled by the low hum of machinery in the room and the feeling of his father sitting beside him.

John propped his head up on his elbows, his eyes sliding closed. He was exhausted, but he knew that he had to stay awake. He had to watch over Sam and wait for updates on Dean's condition.

So he stayed beside the bed, listening to the steady hum of machinery and rasping breaths of his son, resolving to watch over Sam as best he could while he slept soundly.

After all that had happened, it was the least he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!  
So I know that John is probably a little OOC, if only because he's actually being nice for once. I'm one of those people who volleys between thinking he was an awful person who beat Dean and Sam to get them into line, to thinking that he was just trying to protect them and that he wasn't such a bad person after all.  
In this story, he's a better father than the show makes him out to be. Sorry, John-haters.  
I'm working on the tenth chapter right now, so I should have it out soon. See you all in a little while!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry it took so long to update. I've been juggling schoolwork and wrestling like a madwoman. This chapter is a little longer and contains some fluff. Don't worry, there will be more to come, and then stuff really goes down. Enjoy!

**Ten**

Everything hurt.

Dean stayed as still as possible, listening for the telltale sounds of Steve coming down the basement steps.

There was a voice somewhere near the other side of the room. A man's voice. It didn't sound quite like Steve's, but nothing quite felt right. Dean was disoriented from the dream he'd had.

His father. It was impossible. John was somewhere in western Illinois, oblivious to the predicament his sons were in. And Sammy. . .

If Steve were in here with them, and he wasn't hurting Dean, that meant he was hurting Sam.

Dean jerked awake, yelping as pain flashed through his body.

It was agony. His back and shoulder screamed with it, flashing white hot and making Dean feel like he was going to pass out.

The lights in the room were blinding. That wasn't right. The lights in Steve's basement were dim and allowed shadows to creep into the corners. This room was. . . decidedly bright.

_Did he take us somewhere else?_

No, that wasn't right either.

Suddenly, images flooded into Dean's mind. After John, he had seen other people. People in white and pale blue, shouting in volumes that made his head pound. Then there had been knives, and he had been screaming. Screaming so loudly, he didn't think his voice was going to work for weeks. He remembered thinking that at least Steve had given him breaks in between the agony. This seemed to go on forever.

Then he had fallen into the abyss. And now he was here. In this blindingly bright room with the man that wasn't Steve.

He couldn't be. Steve looked different. And he didn't wear blue scrubs.

The man was running toward him. Dean panicked, suddenly frightened by the fact that he had no idea where he was or who that man was. And Steve. . .

_The body was lying on the floor next to him, the tongue lolling out of the mouth, blood pulsing from the gunshot wound on the forehead-_

Steve was dead.

So where was he?

Where was John?

Where was _Sam?_

Dean jerked away from the man as he reached for him, crying out soundlessly as pain surged through his body again. Where was Sam? Where was Sam?

He struggled to get away from the man as he grabbed at his forearms, aggravating the bruises and cuts that lingered there. The pain flashed again and he was vaguely aware of hot, involuntary tears streaming down his face.

The man suddenly disappeared. Gentle hands encompassed Dean's wrists.

Dean's panicked, frightened green eyes found the owner of the hands. A young woman that looked to be in her thirties was smiling kindly at him.

Her mouth was moving. Dean focused on her lips, struggling to hear over the pounding of pain and fear in his ears.

"-down, sweetheart. You're alright, everything is fine. You're safe. I need you to calm down now."

Dean choked and suddenly realized he was breathing fast and hard. He choked on his own breath again, chest convulsing painfully.

"You're alright, sweetheart. I need you to calm down. Can you think of something happy for me? Something calming. You need to slow your breathing, sweetheart," the woman was saying. Her voice was soft and sweet. The look on her face and in her eyes sort of reminded Dean of his mother.

He struggled to come up with something happy. His panicked mind conjured up an image of Sam's third birthday, when he'd managed to convince John to indulge in a chocolate cake and Sammy had gotten it all over his face.

_Sammy._

"S'mmy," he rasped, his voice broken and jagged. "S'mmy."

The woman seemed pleased that he had calmed his breathing somewhat. She smiled kindly at him. "Your brother is alright, Dean. He's resting. Calm down, sweetheart. He's fine. You're fine."

Sammy was fine. Was he? Was she lying? Who was this woman?

"Who?" Dean asked, unable to force anything else out. "Who?"

"My name is Doctor Jean. I work at the McDonough Hospital in Illinois. You were admitted here on October 6th, and you've been here for eighteen hours, six of those in surgery. Your brother is resting in a room across the hall. Your father is visiting with him," the woman explained. Dean had calmed considerably now, but she hadn't released his wrists. He found that he didn't mind that. Her hands were warm and gentle.

_Better than cold, biting shackles any day._

Dean flicked his head a little, trying to focus on Dr. Jean. She smiled kindly at him.

"Better now?"

Dean nodded. He opened his mouth to speak again, but she shook her head.

"Don't speak. You need to recover your voice. I'll get you a pen and paper," she said. She released his wrists to flick her head in signal at the male doctor behind her. He had apparently been shoved out of the way in the middle of Dean's panic attack and was standing sheepishly in the corner. At Dr. Jean's signal, he came forward with a pen and paper.

Dean grabbed it and began to write, frustrated with his weak, shaking hands. His handwriting was sloppy and hard to read, but it was apparently legible to Dr. Jean.

_S-A-M-M-Y-H-U-R-T-?_

She shook her head. "He's not hurt. Just malnourished and dehydrated. We got him the stuff he needed."

Dean relaxed, sagging back into the relative softness of the hospital bed. The clean sheets felt strange on his skin.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" Dr. Jean asked, pulling out a clipboard once she was sure Dean was good and calmed down. He winced and wrote on the board.

_H-U-R-T-S_.

Dr. Jean winced in sympathy. "I know, sweetheart. We had to decrease your pain meds for a little while, but you'll be on them soon enough."  
Shaking his head frantically, Dean wrote out shakily, _N-O-M-E-D-S._

Dr. Jean frowned. "Why not? You'll be in a lot of pain."

Dean shook his head again. _N-O-S-L-E-E-P-Y_.

Dr. Jean's frowned deepened. She read and reread what he'd written before looking up at him. "You don't want them because. . . they make you sleepy?"

Dean nodded.

She raised her eyebrows. "That will hurt, sweetheart. A lot."

He shrugged. 

Dr. Jean sighed and went back to her clipboard. The male doctor muttered something about heading out on break and disappeared.

Dean didn't care that it would hurt a lot without pain meds. If that's what it took to stay awake and alert, he would pay that price.

Dean wrote out another question on the board, his hand shaking tentatively. _D-A-D-?_

Dr. Jean looked down at the board. "Your father? You want to see him?"

Dean hesitated, then nodded. He wasn't quite sure what to expect from John. In the brief flashes he remembered from the escape from Steve's basement, he vaguely recalled John looking worried. He hadn't looked angry, but that could definitely change.

Dr. Jean made a face, then looked Dean up and down.

"I'll make you a deal. You let me check your vitals without a fuss and promise not to try to talk while your father's here, and I'll call him in. Okay?"

Dean nodded.

Dr. Jean proceeded to check his blood pressure, heart rate, breathing, and other things. When she placed a warm hand on his back and told him to breathe in, she frowned and muttered something about displacing broken ribs again, then scribbled something down on her clipboard.

When she finished, she eyed him again. "You better not try to talk, Dean Winchester, or I'll kick your daddy out of here so fast he won't know what hit him."

Dean felt a small smile pulling at his lips. He nodded.

Dr. Jean smiled at him and exited the room, leaving him alone with the beeping of the machines and the buzzing of the overhead lights.

A split second later, she reentered, followed by John Winchester.

He looked like. . . well, shit. His bloodshot eyes were underlined with deep shadows, and his normally haggard face was unusually pale and tired-looking. He walked with a more pronounced limp and his eyes had a sort of haunted look. They brightened, however, when he saw Dean.

"Dean," he breathed, relief saturating his voice. Dean remembered at the last second that he wasn't supposed to talk and merely leaned into the awkward hug his father gave him. The Winchesters weren't (save for maybe Sammy) a very touchy-feely family, and any hugs and affection were given awkwardly and only at extreme moments.

As it was, the warmth of his father and the smell of his leather jacket comforted Dean in a way only John could have done, something Dean would never admit.

Dean wrote on his paper. _O-K-?_

John nodded. "I'm fine. Sammy is too. He's in the room across the hall, sleeping right now. You should be too."

Dean snorted. _Y-O-U-T-O-O_.

John laughed hoarsely and ran a hand through his graying hair. "Yeah, probably. I've got enough caffeine in my bloodstream to give a water buffalo a heart attack."

Dean grinned.

Dr. Jean appeared at the end of Dean's bed. She smiled at John.

"Your son is a strong one. He insisted on no painkillers, though I was going to ask you about that, seeing as you're his father."

John glanced at Dean, then nodded at Dr. Jean."Yeah, that's my boy. He doesn't like the sleepy feeling, and honestly, I can't blame him."

Dr. Jean nodded and wrote something down on the clipboard again. 

Dean began to write again. It took longer, though his hand was steadier now that his father was standing next to him.

_H-O-W-L-O-N-G-H-E-R-E-?_

Dr. Jean frowned and glanced at her magical clipboard again.

"Well, considering that you have to recover from surgery, I would give it about six weeks," Dr. Jean replied.

Both John and Dean stared at her. 

"That's not gonna work," John told her apologetically. "Is there any way we can shorten that?"

Dr. Jean's blue eyes, which had been perpetually kind and gentle in the few minutes Dean had known her, hardened as she looked at John.

"Mr. Winchester, that is cutting it close as it is. With the trauma your sons have endured, I would be grateful it isn't six months." Her voice was firm and held no room for argument. Even though her voice was still sweet, her words had backbones of steel.

Effectively reprimanded, John nodded. Dean had never seen him back down from someone before, especially a female who wasn't a hunter, but something about Dr. Jean made him wonder what would happen if his father _had_ decided to argue, and whether it would be named a hurricane or another world war.

Dr. Jean's eyes softened again and she sighed, looking down at her clipboard again. "He needs rest, Mr. Winchester. They both do."

Dean wasn't sure if that was meant for him to hear too, but John was nodding as if he understood. He turned to Dean and sighed.

"She's right. I think you should get some more sleep, son. I'll rent a motel nearby," he said. "I have to get some better sleep than in a hospital chair. My neck can't handle it."

Dean nodded, grinning to show that he understood. John smiled tiredly at him, thanked Dr. Jean, and left.

When he was gone, the room seemed colder and emptier.

"Get some sleep, sweetheart," Dr. Jean said kindly. She patted his leg. "You need it. When you wake up, just press that red button."

Dean nodded.

She left the room, flicking off a few lights as she did. With the dimmer room, Dean lay back on the bed, relaxed. Sam was safe. His father was nearby. Steve was dead.

The pain had lessened to a manageable throb. Dean was almost comfortable in the hospital bed.

He released a breath, relaxed and content for the first time in weeks.

His eyes slid shut, and before he could realize what was really happening, Dean was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! I posted it, and now I don't feel guilty thinking about how long it's taken me to do so. I hope you liked it. I'm going to go fall face-first on my bed and sleep now. Goodnight, everyone! Thanks again for reading this crazy thing! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I'm back, and I'm pulling an all-nighter tonight with my brother, so I should be able to get some more chapters out soon. I'm thinking that this story is coming to a close, as there isn't much left to do except dish out some of the fluff I promised.  
There will be fluff in this chapter. Dean and John may also seem a little out of character. For John, this is basically what I wish he had been like. For Dean, I guess all I can say is that when put under stress, the human brain does pretty crazy things to survive, and some of them might alter personalities a little. That's about the best explanation I can give you.  
Enjoy!

**Eleven**

John rented a random room in a nameless motel, collapsed on top of the bed, and fell asleep.

He woke up six hours later, blearily rubbing his eyes and wondering what year it was.

Then he remembered everything and he sat up, checking his watch. It was almost six in the morning. He grunted and rubbed at his face, wondering how he'd even made it to this motel without crashing the Impala in the state he'd been last night.

He got up, got himself some coffee, changed into the spare set of clothes he had in the trunk of the Impala, and headed to the hospital again. He checked with the nurse and she told him both his sons were asleep, so he decided to drive back to the other motel, grab their stuff, check out, and transfer across town to the motel he had stayed at the night before.

When he arrived back at the hospital, he found the police waiting for him.

Two and a half hours later, John learned that Steve's body had been identified as Steve Harking, a serial killer who'd been deemed missing and/or dead by the state years ago. John killing him had been ruled an act of self-defense, so he wouldn't have to go to court. 

This filled him with an unknown sense of relief as he realized that once Dean and Sam had recovered, they could leave this shitty little town and never look back.

As it was, Dean and Sam still had a long road to recovery ahead of them. Dean especially was required to stay in bed for weeks, his body healing from the surgery and trauma it had endured. Sam was good to be released from the hospital in eight days, something that John was relieved for. He didn't think he could stand sleeping alone in an empty, two bed motel room that he had rented out of habit.

When he was finally released from the police station, he drove to the hospital. The receptionist greeted him happily and pointed him in the direction of his sons' rooms. John thanked her and headed down the hallways.

Sam was awake when he entered his room. He was eating breakfast, something that looked a little like it could pass as oatmeal, some fruit, and a glass of what looked like apple juice.

"Dad!" Sam rasped as he entered.

"Morning, Sam," John replied, smiling at his youngest son. He looked better, less pale and sickly, and he was smiling. 

John should have anticipated the next question out of Sam's mouth.

"How's Dean?"

John rubbed at his face. "I just got here, buddy. I haven't seen him yet. He's doing okay, from what I saw last night."

Sam relaxed a little, nodding. He picked at the leftover oatmeal distastefully. "I wanna see him."

"I know. In a week, you can," John replied, knowing this was something he was going to be repeating often.

"I don't wanna wait a week," Sam whined.

"Sam," John sighed warningly. "You aren't going to hurt yourself because you can't handle not bickering with your brother every five minutes."

Sam huffed and looked away, plunking his spoon down in his oatmeal. 

John sighed, sensing his son's bad mood. 

"Steve's dead," he finally said, quietly. Sam tensed, looking back at him.

"Really? Like, all the way dead?"

"Yeah. I called a few hunters. They salted and burned his bones. He's long gone, and he won't be coming back," John assured. Sam didn't relax. He looked down at his plate of food, picking thoughtfully at a grape with his long fingers.

Silence descended. John sighed and looked down. He didn't know what to say. Sam had never been overly talkative. It had always been Dean that filled the silences, unless John and his oldest were mad at each other. _Then_ Sam opened his big mouth and talked about anything and everything, desperately trying to ease the tension.

But now, here-

"Go visit Dean, Dad," Sam said quietly. "He probably wants to see you."

John nodded, ignoring the tightness in his chest at the implication of those words. 

He stood, patted Sam awkwardly on the shoulder, and left.

Outside the room, John took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. Then he headed the short distance down the hall to Dean's room.

Dean was getting his bandages changed by a nurse when John entered. His oldest son was tense, barely holding back growls and hisses as the nurse intruded in his personal space.

The nurse knew it, too. He was desperately trying to finish as fast as possible, treating Dean like a rabid dog that would attack at any moment.

John chuckled and pulled up a chair.

"Morning, Dean."

"Morning, sir."

John waited for the nurse to finish up and scurry away, dragging his cart with him. Then he turned to his oldest.

Dean looked terrible, but he had looked worse. He was still pale, and he still had dark patches under his eyes and bruises around his throat. But he wasn't unconscious, he wasn't delirious, and he wasn't bleeding openly, so that counted as pretty okay in John's book.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" John asked, his voice a tad softer than when the nurse had been in the room.

"Fine," Dean replied immediately. John frowned but didn't push.

They sat in silence (uncomfortable _again_) for a while.

Finally, John shifted, unable to bear the silence anymore. "See any hot nurses?"

Dean managed a weak smile. "Yeah. You should have seen the one that came in to give me a sponge bath."

John laughed at that one, though it was strained. Dean laughed too, but their mirth soon died off.

Finally, John sighed and asked the question he'd been dying to ask since he'd broken down that damned basement door and been smacked in the face by the smell of blood and pumpkin spice candles.

"How did you guys get caught?"

Dean stiffened. If John had thought he was tense before, it was nowhere near the ramrod-straight spine and clenched fists that he sported now.

John waited, knowing if he pushed it would be worse.

Dean finally released a harsh breath. "We were driving down a back road when night was falling. One of them blew our tire from a hidden spot. We got out and they stuck us with tranquilizing darts."

John was silent.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe. How could it be so. . . easy? His sons weren't easy men to jump. They were smart, skilled, and dangerous. They didn't take stupid risks. And they _always_ watched each other's backs. 

Besides, something like that must have taken time. Someone would have had to know where they would be and at what time. 

Someone would have had to have been stalking his boys' movements. They had been chosen specifically. After all, Steve had been looking for _him._

_Does that mean this is all my fault?_

John shook that thought away before it could take root in his mind and spread a cancer of guilt and self-hatred. There was already too much there anyway.

"Dad?"

The sudden voice startled John out of his thoughts. He looked up and was shocked to see tears in his oldest son's eyes.

"Yeah?" he asked, aiming for gentle and missing by a mile.

"Dad, I'm. . . I'm sorry," Dean breathed out in something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "I'm s-sorry. I l-let my guard down and now-now. . . now S-Sammy and I-I and we-and it-and-"

"Hey, hey, calm down, Dean," John soothed. Dean shook his head, working himself up into an even tighter coil. John watched helplessly as tears began to slide down his oldest son's cheeks.

"I'm s-sorry, so s-s-sorry-I didn't-I don't-I c-caused this, I'm sorry-"

"Dean," John said firmly. He put his hands on his son's shoulders.

Dean took a stuttering breath, trying to regain control of his emotions. He was still mumbling a litany of _I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry._

"Dean," John said again. This time, his son looked at him with tearful, puffy green eyes. John tightened his grip on Dean's shoulders. "It is _not_ your fault."

At those words, the dam broke.

Dean leaned into him with a sob, something that surprised John. He sat there like a dumbass for a moment, eyes wide with disbelief as his oldest son tucked his face into his shoulder and cried.

Then he regained his senses and realized _I'm his father, I need to comfort him_ and he put his arms around Dean.

The boy hiccuped out another sob, his too-thin shoulders shaking. John found himself shushing him, rubbing his hands up and down Dean's back, mindful of his injuries.

_Since when did I become Mary? She did this all the time. Since when-?_

But it didn't matter now. All that mattered was that his son was currently looking to him for comfort, for support, and John wasn't about to push him away. Not now.

Not ever.

Dean's sobs began to die down to sniffles, but he still remained in the safe circle of John's arms. The oldest Winchester kept his touch light, ready to let go the second his son made a move to pull away.

But he didn't, and John was content to just hold him.

Soon, Dean's breathing became slower than normal. John pulled away slightly and saw that his oldest son had drifted off to sleep, worn out and tired.

Feeling slightly honored that his oldest son had felt safe enough with him to fall asleep in his arms, John smiled down at him. He pushed Dean back to rest against the hospital bed and pulled up the thin sheet to his waist, a sudden, foreign surge of affection washing through him.

John tucked Dean in, something he hadn't done since the boy was four, and stood, smiling softly.

Whispering a soft, guilty goodnight, John left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Another chapter. I'm thinking maybe four more? We'll see. Sleep well, dear readers, and I shall post either later tonight or early (and I mean EARLY) this morning. Goodnight!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I edited this one really hard. I still wonder if the boys are out of character, and the answer is probably yes, but this is the most I can do. This story is coming to an end, and I am sad. :(  
Enjoy the chapter! I'll try to update again soon!

**Chapter Twelve**

Sam was released from the hospital a week later. He insisted on coming back every day, though, to visit Dean.

"Come on, Sammy, don't you have a life?" Dean had joked one of these times. Sam had replied that yes, he did, and he was glad to spend it free of a hospital bed, which had made Dean grumpy for the next ten minutes until the subject of the conversation had turned to which nurses Dean thought were hot.

Sam never told him that Dean practically _was_ his life.

When hospital visiting hours closed and Dr. Jean practically forced them out of the room so Dean could rest, John and Sam headed back to the motel room.

That was when the interesting part began. Again, the two were painfully aware of the gap in their group, the silence that was usually filled with rude jokes and off-key singing. Without Dean to distract them and make conversation, John and Sam were confined to awkward sentences and poring over old lore books and local newspapers for cases they wouldn't actually pursue.

To say the least, Sam was _very_ excited for Dean's discharge from the hospital.

One night, when they'd gone home after staying at the hospital all day, Sam and John had gone to the nearest gas station for something.

Sam didn't even remember what they went for. Toothpaste, shaving cream, beer, whatever it was, it didn't matter.

All Sam remembered was that the second he'd walked into that damn convenience store, the smell of pumpkin spice candles had hit him smack in the face.

He froze.

John, who'd been behind Sam, smacked into him and grunted.

"Move, Sam."

Sam stayed where he was, eyes wide, the displacement of air rushing inward and faintly blowing his hair.

John grunted in annoyance, pushing lightly on Sam's shoulder.

The youngest Winchester turned abruptly, shoved past his father, ran to the side of the parking lot, and vomited his dinner into the grass.

Sounds were distorted to Sam's ears. He couldn't hear much of what his father was shouting, but he sounded worried. And maybe he should have been.

Sam closed his eyes, fighting the images that were rising in his mind, inhaling deep breaths of cold fall air. It didn't help. The sickly sweet scent of pumpkin spice clung to the inside of Sam's nostrils. He vomited again.

_Dean, chained to the ceiling, barely conscious._

_ Dean's skin being carved open with a knife._

_ Steve, leaning over Sam with a sadistic grin on his face._

_ John firing, Dean falling to the floor._

_ Blood. Blood everywhere._

Hands were grabbing onto Sam's shoulders. Panicked, he shoved them off, surprised that he _could_ shove at them without the shackles on his hands restricting him-

"Sam! Sam, look at me!"

That wasn't Steve's voice.

Sam blinked, gasping a breath of night air.

John Winchester shook his son again. Hard. It seemed to be doing the trick, as Sam's hazel eyes were now a little more focused. He made a gasping, choking sound, like a fish out of water.

Sam looked around, his eyes taking in the scene around him. The parking lot, bathed in glaring white light. The warm glow of the convenience store windows. The coolness of the night air and the feeling of cement under his knees.

John was watching him carefully.

"S-Sorry, Dad," Sam breathed. He rubbed at his face and was surprised when his hand came away wet. He wiped away the rest of the tears.

"It's fine, Sam," John replied, sounding gentler than Sam had expected. He was still frowning worriedly. "Want to tell me what that was about?"

Sam released a heavy breath, snorting. "You don't want to know."

"I do."

Sam looked away, fresh tears welling in his eyes. 

"It was the damn candles."

John frowned, looking back at the store.

"The candles?"

"Yeah," Sam choked out. He laughed hoarsely. "The damn candles. They. . . Steve had some candles. He was heating a knife to stick inside Dean, and they smelled like pumpkins, and the store had those, and I couldn't handle it, and-"

"Hey, hey, Sammy, calm down," John soothed. He glared at the store as if it had personally wronged them. "I get it."

Sam sniffled and half-laughed to himself. "This is so dumb."

"Not dumb, Sam," John said.

Sam shook his head. "No, Dad. It _is_ dumb. How the fuck am I going to live my life if I have a mental breakdown every time I smell a fall-scented candle?"

John opened his mouth, then paused, at a loss for words. Sam wiped fiercely at his face, trying to bully his eyes into stopping their flow of tears.

Warm arms awkwardly encompassed his shoulders. Sam paused, honestly wondering which was stranger: the fact that he was kneeling in a gas station parking lot, crying his eyes out over a scented candle, or the fact that his father was trying to hug him.

He probably had to say the latter.

However strange, Sam leaned into the hug, letting the comfort Dean usually provided wash over him. His tears started to slow.

After a few minutes, he got his breathing under control. John still didn't let go, something Sam was pretty surprised about. He wondered if this would stay the same, or if John would go right back to being an asshole after all this was over.

He sincerely hoped not.

Finally, Sam pulled away.

"We should probably get. . . whatever it was we were going to get," he said. John nodded, looking away as Sam wiped his face clean of snot and tears on his shirt.

"I'll go in. You stay here and watch the Impala, yeah? I don't like this town anyway," John offered. Sam gave him a watery smile, grateful that he was offering an out.

He nodded.

"Sure. I'll watch the Impala."

John smiled at him, stood, and brushed off his pants as if nothing had really happened and there wasn't vomit in the grass at his feet and tear stains on his leather jacket.

Sam stood as well and headed in the direction of the Impala, intending to be far away from the doors when John opened them. His father went into the convenience store and shut it behind him.

Sam stared out into the darkness that the gas station lights broke, arms crossed, trying to look intimidating.

Yeah, he didn't like this town either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that was some Sam angst and perspective. We'll see what I can do for the next chapter. Have a nice day, everybody!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Two chapters in one day!  
Alright, so I have some real stuff to talk about. The first is that there are mentions of PTSD in this chapter, and one of the characters has a nightmare that is caused by it.  
Both of my parents are Navy veterans, and my dad has a minor case of PTSD himself. I sort of know about it, but I am by no means calling myself an expert. If you have an issue with how I describe it in this chapter, please tell me and I will adjust it as I see fit.  
Also, if you're triggered in any way, don't read this chapter. I still have one more, and I want everyone to stay safe!

Thirteen

_It was dark._

_ Not dark, actually. It was just darker than Dean had remembered it._

_ He supposed he was used to the hospital lighting now._

_ Steve's basement still had the single light bulb._

_ Dean couldn't move. He couldn't really see, either. The edges of his vision were fuzzy, whether from dehydration or pain, he didn't know._

_ The pain had dulled to a merciful throb, something Dean was grateful for. Especially as someone started pounding down the basement steps._

_ Dean inhaled, choking on pumpkin spice candles and blood, and set his jaw as the door creaked open._

_ Steve smiled down at him._

_ Dean started._

_ There was a huge hole in Steve's head. It was bleeding, red liquid dripping down and staining Dean's tattered shirt. He choked, staring into the deadness of Steve's insane blue eyes._

_ They suddenly morphed into sweet hazel ones. Dean found himself staring up at his brother._

_ The bullet wound was still there._

_ "Sammy!" Dean shouted. "Sammy!"_

_ "Tell me where Dad is, Dean," Sam crooned, blood dripping down his face._

_ "Sammy, what-"_

_ Pain flashed across his back, sharp and fierce, and Dean screamed._

_ Sam grabbed his shoulders, his sweet hazel eyes morphing back into Steve's insane blue ones. Dean yelled as he shaken, screaming for his brother-_

_ "Dean! Dean!"_

"DEAN!"

Dean's eyes flew open, his frantic sobs hitching.

Instead of finding Steve glaring down at him, he found Dr. Jean desperately trying to restrain him. He'd been thrashing around, his now-torn injuries on his back the cause of his pain.

"S-S-Sammy," Dean gasped. "Sammy!"

"He's fine, Dean. He's in town with your father. They've gone home for the night," Dr. Jean explained, gently holding Dean's wrists together in front of him. He tore one away to wipe at his face, trying to stem the flow of tears from his eyes.

"D-Dr. Jean?" he asked.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"What time is it?"

"It's four in the morning, dear. Your shouts woke another patient."  
"S-Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Dean. She was just worried. She's an Army vet, knows what PTSD is like," Dr. Jean said. She stepped back, reaching into her pocket for something. She was wearing the same white coat and dark blue scrubs that she always wore, but she looked tired. It _was_ four in the morning.

_She knows what PTSD is like_.

Was that what he had?

Dean sat up a little straighter and winced.

"It looks like you tore some stitches," Dr. Jean remarked, eying the red stain that was spreading across Dean's back. He swallowed.

"Whoops."

She frowned at it contemplatively and wrote something on her ever-present clipboard.

"Go back to sleep, dear," she said when she saw Dean's eyelids drooping. "The nurses will come in and restitch while you're resting."  
Dean nodded and allowed his eyes to slide shut. The hospital room was warm and smelled of Dr. Jean's perfume, cleaner, and air freshener. Dean relaxed, leaning back on the pillows.

The last thing he heard before he fell asleep was the scratching of Dr. Jean's pen on the clipboard.

"Mr. Winchester?"

John paused on his way to Dean's room. Sam stopped too, eying Dr. Jean curiously.

"Go on ahead, Sammy. I'll be there in a minute," John murmured. He turned his full attention to the doctor as his youngest son continued down the hallway.

"I need to talk to you about Dean and possibly Sam," Dr. Jean said. "Would you like to step into my office?"

John frowned. This didn't sound good.

Like a child who has been asked to talk to his parents, John wondered what, exactly, he had done wrong. Had they found any strange scars on Dean? The hunting life was hard. 

He followed Dr. Jean into her office and sat in the chair she directed him to. She sat down behind her modest oak desk, apologetically moving a stack of papers to the side.

"Has Sam been acting strange?" Dr. Jean asked once they were both settled.

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Flashbacks, nightmares, change in disposition?" Dr. Jean listed.

"He had a sort of flashback last night," John admitted. "He was triggered by something."

Dr. Jean nodded, as if that had been the answer she was looking for. "I believe your sons may be suffering from cases of PTSD."

John nodded, waiting for more. 

"Dean woke up screaming last night, had an awful nightmare. We have an Army veteran in the room next to his, and she said that's what her husband sounds like when he wakes up from his nightmares. PTSD is very common among individuals who have suffered from traumatic experiences," Dr. Jean explained. 

John nodded. He'd heard of plenty of hunters with that same issue.

Dr. Jean paused, watching him carefully. "I think they may need therapy."

_Hell no._

John frowned. "What will happen if they don't receive it?"

"It could get worse," Dr. Jean replied. "PTSD is a serious issue, and it can hinder many people's lives, especially those of veterans. Sometimes it causes them to commit suicide."

John was a vet himself, he knew the dangers of PTSD. Hell, one of his old Marine Corps buddies had committed suicide three weeks after being discharged. 

But he knew how the conversation would go if he brought it up with his sons.

_We don't need therapy._ Sam.

_I don't need no fuckin' person trying to blame random people for my problems! Hell no!_ Dean.

No, it wouldn't go over well.

Now was the time to lie his way out of this.

"Well, I think I'll look into that when we head home. We were just passing through, you see. I had to visit a friend of mine in the next town over," John said, telling Dr. Jean the same bullshit story he'd told the cops.

She looked relieved, and John was surprised to realize that she actually cared for his boys.

"Good. I'm glad," Dr. Jean replied. "I'll let you go now. Dean's been asking for you all morning."

"For Sam, more like," John grumped. "I just come with the Sam package."

Dr. Jean laughed, shaking her head. "No, he was asking for you specifically. And his brother, of course. Their bond is something special."

"Yes, it is," John agreed. "It sure is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! That was the penultimate chapter! I have one more coming, and then an epilogue. Keep reading and reviewing. Love you guys!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The last chapter! This has been an amazing experience, and I thank you all for a great first story. You make me feel confident and eager to write more. Enjoy the last chapter!

**Fourteen**

Dean took a deep breath, relishing the sting of cold air in his nose.

It was the first time he'd been outside in weeks. Sure, he'd gotten out of his hospital bed and hobbled around, but this, this was something new.

"Are you done?"

Dean opened his eyes and glared at his younger brother. "Shut up, bitch."

"Then come on, jerk!"

"Language," John growled, but a smile spread across his face. 

Dean grinned. He'd missed being outside, and he'd missed bantering with his brother. It just didn't seem right to cuss each other out in the hospital room.

He spotted the Impala across the parking lot and jumped, quickening his pace. Sam snorted and followed him, the two of them leaving John in the dust.

"Maybe Dad'll let me drive it," Dean said excitedly, green eyes glowing in the early morning sun.

Sam snorted. "You could barely take a piss by yourself a week ago, Dean."

Dean punched him in the shoulder. His younger brother yelped and rubbed his arm. "Ow."

They reached the car.

"Get in," John called as he got closer. "We're getting food in the next city over. I'm done with this town."

"Me too," Sam agreed. 

"Let's get pie," Dean said.

"Why are you so set on pie?" Sam demanded of him as they climbed into the Impala.

"Do you know how much pie they had in that hospital? _Zero._ I haven't had a bite of pie in _months_," Dean complained.

John snorted as he got in, shutting the door behind him. He started the Impala up, the three of them relishing the rumble of the engine.

"We'll get pie at whatever diner we stop inn" John said.

They pulled out of the hospital parking lot, and Dean and Sam both turned around in their seats to take a final glance at the hospital. John's eyes flicked to his boys in the rearview mirror.

The Impala turned onto a street and the hospital was lost behind a line of trees.

Dean and Sam both turned around, glanced at each other, then turned their eyes to the road. The unspoken agreement settled into the seat between them.

The old muscle car cruised down the street, rumbling through the deserted early morning. John took the long way, avoiding the side of town that Steve's house had been located in, and got on the highway.

"We got a case, Dad?" Dean asked.

"Yep. What Sam and I think is a vamp nest in the next town over. We'll stock up on holy water and silver when we get there. There's an old buddy of mine who runs a store like that for hunters," John replied, eyes on the gray-black road in front of them.

"Sounds good," Dean said. A strange sort of relief filled his chest. It felt good to be back in routine. Hunting always gave him a sense of purpose, a sense of _I'm doing the right thing._

It didn't hurt that it distracted him from anything else. 

No, Dean wouldn't think about Steve or his basement or his goddamn scented candles. Right now, he would focus on the presence of his family next to him, the open road being eaten up by the Impala's wheels, and the brightness of the new sun rising behind them.

He grinned and leaned forward.

"There aren't any cops around. How fast can you go?"

John looked over at Dean, looking like he was about to say what he normally said. _No, Dean, we can't risk being pulled over for a ticket just to satisfy your reckless desires._

But this time, he looked back at the road and checked the rearview mirror for any cars.

"Let's see," John replied.

He floored the accelerator, and Dean was thrown back into his seat with a laugh.

The Impala roared away down the road, her engine rumbling in the early Illinois morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! I'm going to go cry in a corner in a little bit, but first I wanted to thank you all again for reading this crazy story and being so supportive. I enjoyed your comments! Have a great day, everybody! I'll see you all soon!


	15. Chapter 15

** *In the SpongeBob narrator voice*: Epilogue**

Hey everybody!

This isn't a chapter, I know. I'm sorry. 

I guess that technically makes it an Author's Note, not an Epilogue. *Winces* Sorry.

Anyway, yeah.

I'm here to thank you awesome readers for sticking with this crazy story, and for all of you to come. This is my first published fic, and I've gotten an amazing reception, which I thank you for. You've renewed my confidence in myself and in writing. I hope to see you in the near future with more writing!

I also want to give a special shoutout to angelsrdvd64. You have been with me from the beginning, and your amazing comments make my day. Thank you for your support and pure awesomeness!

I'll be writing more fics soon. In fact, I'm working on one right now. I'll see you all soon!

The last thing I have to say is that I wish you all the best of luck in writing and wherever life takes you. Love you guys!

~Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound


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